


SPN-LEV Xover

by Joanna_Kay



Category: Leverage, Supernatural
Genre: Dean in Boston, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Secret Relationship, no Lisa and Ben
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-22 13:49:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13765467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joanna_Kay/pseuds/Joanna_Kay
Summary: After Dean loses Sam, Bobby and Castiel after the Apocalypse, he doesn't head to Indiana to be with Lisa and Ben Braeden. Instead, he goes to Eliot Spencer in Boston. (post Season 5 Supernatural, Season 3 Leverage.)More tags, characters, etc., added as needed. Unbeta'd, but read through.





	1. Chapter 1

It was over in seconds, in minutes, in an eternity; the Earth opened up and swallowed his family. One last glance, of love, apologies, grief, understanding, of reminders... and his brother was gone. Stull Cemetary was still, the sun peeking through the overcast sky, unnaturally quiet the way graveyards tend to be, especially the abandoned ones. There was nothing to show what had happened mere minutes before, the foretold epic battle between brothers, the Apocalypse: the ground wasn't scarred, there weren't trees on fire. Only a broken and bloody man leaning against a dented car, the body of his father figure discarded nearby, the remains of one of his closest friends scattered... everywhere.

Dean Winchester knelt by the Horsemen's rings, his head bowed, a single tear falling to mingle with rapidly drying blood. Sammy had said that he was going to end it and he had. He had taken Lucifer and Michael and Adam all into the Cage, the prison that had held Lucifer for centuries... and was now trapped. There was no way Sam could come back, not without releasing Lucifer as well. He was gone.

And Dean was alone.

More alone than when Sam had gone to Stanford – sure, he hadn't talked with his younger brother, but he'd known he was out there. Plus, John Winchester had been alive and around. And Bobby.

Dean tore his eyes from the overgrown ground and looked over his shoulder. Bobby Singer, researcher extraordinaire, hunter in his own right, and one of the best men Dean knew, lay sprawled on the ground where he had fallen, his neck snapped by an Archangel. Dean stood, slowly and painfully, and staggered to the older man, falling to his knees once more. A shaky hand reached out, dropping the Horsemen's rings on the unmoving chest before closing unseeing eyes. The man deserved a Hunter's funeral, a warrior's funeral; deserved to be wrapped and burnt so his body couldn't be used against his will.

There was no way Dean could do that, as he carefully held a broken arm close to his body. There was no way he could shift and move 200 pounds of deadweight on his own with such an injury.

He was alone.

He shook his head, momentarily shaking the cobwebs of grief and loss and the post-adrenaline lag from his mind and took a deep breath.

It was over.

He was alone.

They had won.

He had lost.

A quiet murmur of apology to Bobby, and Dean struggled to stand. There was nothing for him here anymore.

*

Eliot Spencer was stepping out of the shower when there was a knock on his door. A quick glance at the bedside clock had him raising one eyebrow as he wrapped his towel more securely around his waist. It was only 5:30 in the morning, a time when most sane people would either still be sleeping or would just be savoring their first cup of awareness giving caffeine. The only reason Eliot himself was up was because his chosen job as a hitter and retrieval specialist, even one that had been working primarily with Leverage Incorporated, a company aimed towards helping the little people, needed to keep in shape and be at the top of his game.

Unfortunately, his chosen team and family were about as crazy as he was. It wouldn't surprise him if Hardison had been up all night on his computers or fearless sack-of-crazy Parker couldn't sleep and decided to show up at his door. Assuming Parker decided to use the door instead of a window or some other way to enter the apartment. Even Sophie had called once or twice, unable to sleep as they all worked towards how to get Nate Ford, the man behind the idea of Leverage, the man who introduced them all to each other and molded them into a team, out of jail.

Not that Eliot had shared his address with any of them, needing to keep some part of himself separate from the team even as they were his team. He knew it wouldn't really stop any of them, though, and was half sure that Hardison had looked up all the pertinent information has soon as they had joined Nate in Boston and made that their home base.

Taking a moment to step into a pair of worn jeans, he transferred the towel to his dripping hair and gave it a rough work-through before tossing the towel back into the bathroom for it to land in the hamper and made his way to the front door. The knocking had stopped but the hairs on the back of Eliot's neck rose. The person was still there. Why would they stop knocking? Anyone on the team would continue, persistent to the point of annoyance. He looked around, debating a hefty paperweight before shrugging.

If someone had come to his place looking for a fight, he was ready and willing to oblige them and he didn't need a weapon of any sort to do it.

He unlocked the door silently and squared his shoulders before pulling it open swiftly, hoping to catch the person on the other side off guard.

It worked a little too well, the maneuver also throwing him off guard as a body tumbled forwards into the apartment, Eliot catching it on reflex and grunted at the sudden pull of 180 pounds of dead weight. He knelt down, letting the weight of the body take him down as he broke the fall. As soon as it was mostly supported by the floor, he looked suspiciously at the oversize brown leather jacket. He recognized that jacket.

Reaching, he carded his fingers through short light brown hair, frowning as the head lolled against his shoulder and a bruised face came into view. One eye was swollen completely shut, the other just barely a slit of green, The too pale skin of his face was starting to turn all sorts of interesting bruise shades, what wasn't covered with the rust red of dried blood. Split lips broke into a a small smile, the bottom one splitting yet again as fresh blood began oozing.

“Hey, cowboy. Miss me?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot takes care of Dean. A little.

Eliot watched the man currently passed out in his sofa. The hunter was laid out on his back, slack-jawed and lightly snoring, sock-clad feet dangling uncomfortably over the edge. Muddy combat boots littered the clean floor, the battered leather jacket draped haphazardly over a chair. Next to Eliot sat a bowl with warm water and a washcloth and the hitter contemplated just how he could get the other man cleaned up to his satisfaction. 

It had been hard enough to get Dean into the apartment; the man had gone slack like a marionette whose strings had been cut as soon as Eliot opened his door. Eliot was a strong man, but a good 180 pounds of solidly muscled man wasn't the easiest thing to move when you weren't trying to injure said man even further. The hunter's face was a mess, bruised, sluggishly bleeding. He had protested when Eliot hauled him further into the apartment, so the hitter was sure there were injuries hidden under life-worn cotton and denim; more bruising, at the very least, and possibly a rib injury or two.

How the stubborn man had gotten to Boston, he didn't want to know. The idiot had probably driven his beloved Impala, ignoring all the signs his body was giving him to stop and rest, to heal.

Nodding decisively, he grabbed a pair of heavy duty scissors laid out by the rapidly cooling water. As much as the other man would complain, he had to get out of those clothes and was in no shape to help with the task. Eliot made short work of the plain black t-shirt and denim over-shirt, easily slicing from hem to neckline and then carefully going down each arm. As he did, he breathed a quiet sigh of relief that the hunter wasn't in one of his band shirts; Eliot wouldn't be quickly forgiven is he had been.

Lifting the first washcloth and wetting it, he began stroking it down muscular arms, carefully rotating the joint this way and that in a search for tenderness. Finding none, he made his way to the defined chest, re-wetting the cloth and gently cleaning the hunter's upper body, deftly checking for injuries with careful fingers. Based on the moans and slight movements, it looked like there was at least two cracked ribs, maybe more. Given the heavy bruising on his body, it would be a miracle if that was the worst Dean had been injured.

Anger flared. What on earth had Dean been hunting? Why hadn't he called Eliot for help? And, sure, Eliot knew that Dean tried to keep his worlds – his life Hunting and his life with Eliot – separate, but he also knew that El could handle himself in a hunt; had handled himself in hunts just fine in the past. Most worrying was that Dean had showed up all alone on the hitter's doorstep. Where was the hunter's younger brother in all this? Sure, he'd never met Sam Winchester, but he knew all about him. Eliot couldn't imagine the younger hunter leaving his brother alone to face whatever he obviously had.

Eliot tamped the slow burn of anger down as he swallowed the questions and speculation. For now. He wouldn't get any answers while Dean was unconscious or sleeping. Those would come later; and they would come, regardless of how much Dean tried to deflect. Eventually, the hitter would know what happened. All of it.

Whether or not the reluctant-to-talk hunter spilled it all at once or doled it out in miniscule lines. The latter of which was honestly the more likely. He was going to tell Eliot what he had been up to.

Getting to his feet, Eliot ran more warm water into his bowl before once more dropped down to his knees beside his sofa. Picking up a fresh washcloth, he began cleaning Dean's face, wincing as the blood was washed away and the flesh became even more colorful, looked even more grotesquely swollen. Something had put the other man through the wringer, chewed him up and spat him back out. Light fingers once more carded through short-cropped hair, probing for hidden injuries. There was a solid knot on the back of the hunter's head, large enough for the hitter to know the other man almost definitely had a concussion.

Concussion checks. They were one of his least favorite things to be on either end of, but they were a hazard to both their jobs.

The other man cleaned up as best he could, even if he was still in time-and-sweat stiff jeans, Eliot rose to his feet and draped a cost blanket over him before making his way to the kitchen. Economical movements grabbed the canister of ground coffee beans and his french press as he contemplated what he should have for his belated breakfast. Nothing too heavy; his plans were to stay at the apartment with his unexpected guest all day. He had, in fact, already called his team and informed them he would be MIA for a few days; that no, he didn't need any help; yes, he would call if he got in over his head; no, they had better not show up or pry into what isn't their business. 

His life had been much simpler before he had become a part of Leverage and subsequently made those nuts his chosen family, but he wouldn't change a thing.

He looked over to the sofa where he could only see dangling feet and light brown hair. That worked for pretty much everything that was really good in his life.

*

After a quick, light breakfast, El reluctantly left the sanctuary of his apartment to wander downstairs to the parking area. He didn't want to leave the still unconscious hunter, but had decided that checking on the man's beloved car would be appreciated. The fact that it got him out of the apartment to stretch his legs was a bonus.

He stopped abruptly, looking in slight horror at the 1967 Impala sitting haphazardly in one of his assigned spots. It was parked crooked, wheels pressed right up against the bumper in a parking display that Dean Winchester would never have left his beloved Baby in. The windshield was horribly cracked, fissures radiating out in a spiderweb that spoke of a single blunt impact that Eliot could only hope hadn't been the reason for the goose egg on the other man's head. It wasn't a hope that the hitter thought would be fruitful. The sides were dented in a display that spoke of even more of a physical argument, the normally gleaming immaculate paint encrusted with streaks of dust and what Eliot was pretty sure was blood.

Dean Winchester's beloved vehicle was even more busted and battered than the man himself. He had never seen the car anything less than kept up, beyond dust from constantly being on the road. Dean took care of that car, a car that was really the only home he had ever really known throughout his life, better than he took care of anything else in his possession except for weaponry. The younger man had joked that the Impala was the one constant in his life, even more than his father and brother.

It was a sentiment that had, frankly, hurt Eliot. It wasn't anything personal on Dean's part, he knew. It was just that he wanted to be considered a constant in the hunter's life as well. Unfortunately, his own life and chosen profession – as well as Dean's reluctance to mix business with personal – meant that the men spent long stretches without actually seeing each other face to face, relying on phone calls and texts to burner phones which only they had the numbers for as well as the occasional spontaneously planned get together between jobs for either of them.

Seeing the damage to a man he cared deeply or upset Eliot beyond belief.

But this? Seeing the man's prized possession looking like it shouldn't be on the road, let alone having gotten the seriously injured man to Boston?

It terrified the hitter.

Just what had his hunter gotten himself in to?

More importantly: was anything going to be coming after the man to finish off the job it had started?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, looks like there is actually interest in this little idea that I had! I honestly have no idea how much of this will be written (at the moment, I'm leaning towards a series of short little fics, snapshots in time that allows me to jump around.
> 
> I hope that you enjoyed the latest. Unbeta'd, but read through and put through spell-and-grammar-check.
> 
> Reviews and kudos are love. (Honestly, those and the hits are what inspired me to actually sit down with my laptop and continue this!)


	3. Chapter 3

It was over 36 hours later that Dean woke with a quiet groan, one hand raising to run down a still battered face. He immediately dropped his hand with a grimace, gingerly opening still-swollen eyes against the glaring sun. He sat up silently, levering himself up braced on one arm even as he supported shifting, cracked ribs. He looked around, taking in the comfortable – and definitely nicer than his typical cheap motel – furnishings. Where the hell was he?

The last thing he remembered was the cemetery. Watching as Lucifer killed Bobby and Cas with barely a thought. Watching as Sammy, his little brother, took a swan dive into a millennium old cage in an effort to stop the Apocalypse and save the world.

He vaguely remembered thinking that he had lost everything and everyone in his hunting life and that he should seek out Eliot in his new home.

After all, just because he had lost everyone in his hunting life, that didn't mean he had lost everyone important to him, period.

The trip itself was a blur. Had he made it the almost 1500 miles? Had he passed out on the side of the road and a good Samaritan picked him up and took him home like he was a lost puppy? This sure as hell wasn't a hospital.

His heart rate picking up, he levered himself off the bed abruptly, ignoring the shifting of bones in his chest and the vague weakness of leg muscles that had been dormant for an indeterminate amount of time. Waking up in an unknown place after being out cold was never a good thing, in his experience. Hell, in anyone's experience.

Moss green eyes noted his clothing, ripped and still soiled, folded haphazardly next to a light gray hamper. A black duffel easily recognized as his was next to it, zipped tight and still bulging with its contents. Lying on top of a nearby dresser, he recognized his keys by the bullet keychain. So, where-ever he was, the person hadn't felt the need to go through his stuff. It was a good thing, considered the weapons he had stashed in his bag; though if the weapons he had stashed on his person hadn't caused a pause and call to the police, the other sure wouldn't either.

Walking on silent, bare feet, he momentarily debated taking the time to get dressed, at least in his jeans and boots, the latter of which were an easy if impromptu weapon. Quickly deciding against it if only because he wanted, needed, to find out where he was right this damn minute and didn't want to alert any possible unfriendlies to the fact he was awake, aware and a potential threat, he carefully opened the bedroom door that was hanging ajar. Thankful it was well oiled and didn't squeak in protest, he moved out into the main living area of his present location. The entire space was comfortable, if a bit impersonal. Pale walls covered with tastefully frames photographs of natural scenery; sturdy, well made furniture placed just so; the scent of coffee drifting from a kitchen visible over a counter bar. There was a battered leather couch, not so much in disrepair as well-loved, taking up a good chunk of what Dean deemed the living room, the hulk of furniture facing a flat-screen that almost made the hunter salivate.

He moved quickly, quietly, through the area, green eyes cataloging his surroundings without really registering them for now, following the quiet murmur of a masculine voice. The whispered twang niggled at the back of his mind as he turned to towards the noise. There was a set of french doors leading to a small balcony and through it stood a man, his back to Dean, low-riding pajama pants the only clothing cloaking a fit and muscular body. 

Dean gave a lopsided smile. The hunter knew that body, was intimately familiar with it, in fact. 

Looks like he had made it to Boston after all, even if he didn't remember a damn thing about the trip.

He waited until the hitter hung up the phone, frustration bringing out his midwestern accent even more. He was arguing with someone called Sophie, a member of the Leverage team, Dean knew, and one that always got to Eliot. It was the attempts at taking care of him despite the fact that the hitter had been taking care of himself since before he was a legal adult in a myriad of countries and circumstances across the globe.

Not that any of that mattered. If El had called him and said he needed help? Dean would've come running. Just like he knew El would if positions had been reversed.

He waited a brief moment, watching muscles play under sun-kissed skin as the hitter leaned forward on the brick wall acting as an edge. Eliot looked good. Damn good. At least from behind, there were no new scars, no cuts or bruises. His stance, though weary and edged with worry, was relaxed in a way Dean had rarely seen the man. Living on the East coast suited him. So did having a team to back him up, team that had become a quasi-family.

The smile slipped from split lips as Dean looked down at his bare feet and absently wriggled his toes against the hardwood floor. The hitter was doing well, so well, and here Dean came stumbling in bloody and bruised and fresh off a fight to avert the Apocalypse just to ruin everything the other man had fought so hard for.

Who was the he joking? The hunter didn't belong here.

He pivoted, about to leave just as quietly he had come, on his way back to his clothes and car keys, when he was stopped with a hand on his shoulder. He looked back, into eyes the color of the sky, the orbs surrounded by skin crinkling into laugh lines, and licked his lips silently. The blue eyes dropped, watching the movement, as another hand grasped his other shoulder, turning the hunter towards the man.

“You're awake.” It was a statement of fact, one colored by relief and happiness as Dean was drawn forward and stumbled into the slightly smaller man. “I've been doing the normal concussion checks, but you had me worried, Dean.”

The hunter allowed himself to be pulled towards the hitter, their bare chests not quite touching, the concrete scratchy beneath his bare feet. “How long was I out?” The question was asked quietly, almost a whisper but not quite.

“Three days,” El informed him, hands tightening on abused flesh for a brief moment before releasing so as not to cause more damage. “I don't know how long it took you to get here to Boston, though,” he admitted. “I don't even know where you started.”

“Lawrence, Kansas.”

“Your hometown?” He was answered with a nod before Dean leaned forward, pressing his body against the hitter's and sagging slightly, trusting the other man would support him. “What were you doing there?” El reached up and gently traced a still-swollen jawline before pressing a kiss to dirty blonde hair.

“Final showdown between Lucifer and Michael.” Dean could feel the hitter tensing against him and knew, just knew, that it was because Eliot hadn't been called as backup. “It happened really fast,” he explained. “One minute we were still trying to stop it and the next we had a location and had to be there because the dicks pulled some dick moves.”

“That's where...”

“Where my gorgeous looks got ruined?” Dean snorted an agreement before sobering. He took a deep, shaky breath and laid his head down to rest his forehead on Eliot's shoulder. It was as close as he could make himself get to actually asking to be held. 

Luckily, Eliot was fluent in Dean-speak and easily pulled the taller man closer to himself, shuffling them both backwards until he was leaning on the low wall for support, knowing that the warmth from the bright day was healing in and of itself. If only because it was affirmation that the Apocalypse hadn't happened and Dean Winchester had once more saved the day. He carded his hands through Dean's hair as he waited silently for the hunter to take another, shuddering breath.

“It's where I failed, El.” The gravelly voice shook with shuttered emotion. 

“Sammy's gone. I failed him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be honest with you: I haven't started writing the next part yet. I finished this one a bit early and jumped over to another short thing that I had partially written. I do have some ideas, though.
> 
> As always: kudos and reviews are love! (and make me write faster!)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Er, yeah. I'm alive. Hi! I'm sorry for the long wait on this. I actually have another one, but am going to wait a little before posting it. I want to try to get one or two ahead. Maybe in a few days? Anyway - short but sweet.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Reviews and kudos are welcome!

It was a few hours later, both men clean and fresh from individual showers; Dean having complained about babysitting duties when El hadn't been too sure on the other man being able to handle a shower on his own and finally compromising on a chair in the shower itself and leaving the door open. Dean's bandages had been reapplied, the hunter surprisingly to heal already. They were in a surprisingly well-stocked kitchen, the room bright with sunlight and warm wood tones broken up by granite counter tops and a gray tiled floor.

Dean looked around, quirking an eyebrow at a basket on the counter filled with fruit, a woodblock of knives on the counter with well-worn handles, obviously well-used and possibly even for their actual purpose. It was all so... domestic.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” Eliot grunted, the hitter moving around the injured hunter with care but still playfully hip-checking the other man. 

“No, dude,: Dean protested, shaking his head, “the place looks good.” The hunter looked around, taking in the little details that screamed Eliot to him. “It's good that you have a base.”

Eliot gave a quick one-shoulder shrug and passed a steaming mug to the other man, watching as the hunter grimaced at the sweetened tea inside instead of the expected coffee, “Not just a base,” he admitted easily. “It's a home. Roots. It's been a long time since I've had any to speak of.” He looked around what was visible of the comfortable apartment from where they were with satisfaction.

Dean agreed silently, not entirely sure what he even could say to that other than congratulations and asking when the hitter wanted him to leave. Roots had never been big in the Winchester vocabulary, the two youngest growing up on the road. Dean himself had been a rolling stone ever since he'd been four years old, a few weeks here or there as a teenager, a stint at Sonny's home for teenage delinquents and a brief decades-long trip to Hell notwithstanding. Roots wasn't something he knew, wasn't something he'd ever even thought was in the cards for himself. And no one could accuse Dean Winchester of being domestic.

“Hey. You have a place here too,” the hitter stated quietly, leaning against the counter and raising his own mug to his lips. 

The hunter started and shook his head slightly. Of course, Eliot knew what he was thinking. No matter how inscrutable Dean was to the rest of the world, he had always been an open book to the brunet. Not only was the other man the only one who truly cared to see through the masks that Dean used as walls, but he used them as well to guard himself from any harm not physical.

Eliot set his mug down and crossed to the sandy-haired hunter, easily stepping into the man's personal space and reaching out to lift his head, gently urging moss green eyes to meet his own blue. “I mean it, Dean. You have a place here or where I live next. Where ever I am, there's a place for Dean Winchester right next to me for as long as you want it.”

The words were softly spoken and sincere, taking on the tones of vows in the bright sunlight for all that there were no witnesses.

Dean swallowed and leaned forward and down, pressing his lips against El's in a quick, chaste kiss. It was full of thanks and asking for forgiveness for what he had been thinking. As Dean traced Eliot's lips with his tonge and began to deepen the kiss, he shifted his weight and groaned. He'd forgotten the cracked ribs – he'd also forgotten just how much an injury like that hurt when left untreated by an angel's Grace. 

Looks like he'd have to heal the old fashioned way this time – and from now on.

He snagged the mug of tea as the hitter pulled him gently towards the living room, sitting him down on the sofa and fussing over him in a caring but still manly way.

With a bit of mother-henning. 

As he was pressed back against the cushions of the sofa and Eliot settled next to him, a long line of heat pressed against him from knee to shoulder, a muscled arm slung over his shoulders and pulling him infitesmally closer to the other's masculine body, Dean drained the sweetened drink and leaned back, gingerly shifting his bruised and broken body.

They sat in silence, a comfortable silence between two men who never needed words when actions would do just fine. It nonetheless began to drag; Eliot patiently waiting for Dean to give an explanation for why he showed up battered and bruised on his doorstep without so much as a phone call; and Dean fervently avoiding talking about it, knowing that as soon as he didn, he'd have to talk about Sammy and his failures and it was going to get emotional.

Damn, he hated chick flick moments.

Finally, the hunter couldn't take the silence anymore. He sighed and shifted slightly, right hand coming up to touch Eliot's hand and arm, fingers playing over surprisingly soft skin in a touch meant to comfort instead of evhilirate. “That showdown I told you about. Remember?”

“You mean the Apocalypse?” the hitter asked drying, loving the hunter's understatement of the century.

“Yeah. I never told you all of it though.” Dean chewed his lower lip briefly before shrugging. Not like telling the hitter would hurt anything now. What was in the past was in the past. “I told you that me and Sam had roles to play in it, but I never told you what those roles were. We were supposed to be meat-suits. Michael and Lucifer meeting here in the middle and wearing us to the Battle Royale.”

Eliot's grip tightened. To think that Dean Winchester could be reduced to just some angel's – okay, some archangel's – meat-suit was ridiculous. He was so much more than a mere change of clothes. He was also stubborn as hell. Didn't they know he'd have a problem with this whole plan? To say nothing of letting his little brother be one also.

“Apparently, we were born for a reason. Michael was supposed to wear me. Lucifer, Sammy. They were going to duke it out and annihilate life on Earth in the process. Dick angels were all for it; Humanity is nothing more than a group of monkeys playing in the mud to them. Who gives a damn about kids or animals or, you know, humans.”

“When you said you were trying to stop the Apocalypse, I didn't know you meant the actual Apocalypse.,” El murmured before frowning. “I should've known. When the hell do you oversell your problems?”

“Hey.” Dean turned to look at E's face, inches from his own. “It was my fight. I would've called you if I needed to, but I had it. We had it. Sam, Bobby, Cas. We were all fighting tooth and nail to stop it until the end.”

“I could've been there.” It wasn't petulant. The hitter wasn;t pouting about being left out. No, Eliot was more concerned with the fact that Dean would deal with it all on his own, taking who knows what onto his shoulders and accepting the responsibility for.

“I know. You would've come running if I called,” Dean agreed before shaking his head. “That's why I didn't. It was our problem,” he sighed in exasperation when Eliot went to speak, “yeah, I know, the Apocalypse is everyone's problem. But it was our problem. Supernatural. It wasn't your con artist criminal type.” He rolled his lips, giving a pensive half smile. “Besides, El, you're mine.”

Eliot quirked a brow, staying silent and hoping the hunter would continue talking.

“The dicks didn't know about you or they didn't deem you important enough to me to bother. It kept you safe. I know you don't need my protection, that you can handle yourself just as well as I can. But they don't play fair, El. They play dirtier than even the worst lowlifes you've encountered.”

He choked slightly. “Angels are worse?”

Dean snorted. “How about having a demon feel a 6 month old baby blood to corrupt him? Or catapulting me into a future zombie apocalypse just so I can watch Lucifer-wearing-my-brother murder my future self in cold blood? Making sure I make a deal and go to hell just so I can start the ball rolling on the frigging Apocalypse?”

Eliot felt sick, thinking of his childhood. His mother had been religious, always praying and saying that the angels were watching over them. If what Dean was saying was true – and he had absolutely no reason not to believe the man – that wasn't necessarily a good thing.

“I knew it was going to happen. I knew we couldn't really stop it, but I had to try. I had to save Sammy. We had to save the world. Look what happened.” Dean gestured towards his face, the bruises coming up brilliantly.

“Who did you fight?”

“Fight?” A snort of derision. “There was no fight involved. It as just me, trying to talk to Sammy while Lucifer was wearing him. Dear old Satan didn't like that too much, said I kept interfering.”

Dean shifted, grimacing against the pain, and looked up as Eliot stood and held out a hand. He allowed himself to be pulled up and led back to he bedroom, using the facilities before climbing onto the memory foam mattress with the other man. He shifted, biting back a moan of pain, until he was in the position he wanted: on his side, arm draped over the other man's chest, nose buried in soft brown hair.

It was comforting rather than sexual, this skin to skin contact.

He knew the discussion about Sammy wasn't over. He was pretty sure there were more chick flick moments coming, too. Eliot wasn't going to let him get away with keeping quiet about all this.

If there's one thing the hitter understood, it was how things could blow up if you didn't get them out there, festering woulds needing light and air to heal once and for all.

Still, the hunter thought he could get used to this.

**Author's Note:**

> This is just something that popped in to my head when watching Leverage. I have pages upon pages of plot ideas and outlines for this, but this is all I have right now. It has been many years since I've written fanfiction at all - and never in these two fandoms. I was hoping that posting it and getting some likes or reviews might help inspire me.
> 
> I'm posting this as a single chapter, but that will hopefully change.
> 
> So... thoughts??
> 
> More tags, characters, etc., added as needed.


End file.
